room was empty—empty of human presence, anyway. I saw at the first glance that it was a shabby, faded place, in keeping with all that one could see of the house itself, from the outside. The matting on the floor was worn and in holes; the furniture was qualified for a second-hand shop; here and there the wall-paper hung in ribbons. There was a bar on one side, and some shelves behind it, but neither showed much evidence of trade: the stock of bottles on the shelves was negligible. Nevertheless, there was an aroma of stale beer and inferior spirits, mingled with the smell of rank tobacco, and a couple of recently-used glasses on the counter showed that somebody had been in the room not long before.
I went in and looked round more narrowly, intent on discovering any possible sign of Uncle Joseph Krevin’s temporary residence in this derelict hostelry. And before I had been across the threshold a moment I found one; an unmistakable one, too. There was a shabby writing-table in one of the windows, and on its ledge I saw a tobacco pipe which I knew to be Uncle Joseph’s property—I had seen him smoking it at our house. It was a pipe of peculiar shape, with a square instead of a rounded bowl, and it had a silver-perforated top to it. I picked it up—the bowl was faintly warm. I judged from that—putting two and two together in the approved detective fashion—that my precious kinsman was somewhere about. But as I laid the pipe back in its place I made a second discovery, and I saw at once that it was equally important with the first—Cherry, perhaps, might have considered it more important. There was a cheap, uncorked bottle of ink on the dusty writing table, and a much-corroded steel pen near it, and on a loose sheet of ancient blotting-paper, an envelope, addressed to some wine-and-spirit firm. It needed but a glance at it to assure me that the handwriting was identical with that which I had seen on the envelope found in Uncle Joseph’s lodgings in Calthorpe Street. There was no doubt about that!—I was as certain of it as if I had had the two envelopes before me, side by side.
I think it was at that particular point that I said farewell to common sense and calm judgment. What I ought to have done was to go quietly away and tell Cherry of my discoveries. But I was young and impulsive and anxious to distinguish myself—perhaps I wanted to show Pepita how very clever I was. I think I had a notion of bringing the whole thing to a dramatic climax there and then by my own unaided efforts. And instead of following Keziah’s oft-repeated advice to count twenty before deciding on any important step, I rushed on my fate, beginning the rush by going out again to the front of the inn and beckoning Pepita to come to me at the door. Pepita came, diffident, wide-eyed, wondering.
“What is it, Ben?” she demanded. “You look as if you’d found something!”
“I have!” said I, in a whisper intended to convey a world of meaning. “Something that’ll surprise you—and everybody. Look here!—just do as I tell you. There’s nobody about—come inside with me, and keep your ears and eyes open, and you’ll see what happens. Come on!”
She looked at the unpromising frontage of the place with evident disfavour.
“Doesn’t look very nice, Ben,” she objected. “If the people are as dirty as the house”
“Never mind!” said I. “You’ll be all right; I’ll see to that! And it’ll be better than a play! Follow me, now.”
I led her to the room which I had just left, and pointing her to the cleanest of the old chairs, knocked loudly on the counter of the bar. I knocked, still louder, three or four times, and got no answer. Then, just as I was thinking of exploring more of the house, a door at the back of the bar opened, and a man stood before us.
I took this man for the landlord, whose name, Charles Getch, I had already noticed on the signboard outside. He was not a nice-looking man. To begin with, there was something sinister about his face; to end with, he had a curious cast in his left eye. He was a big man, as big as Uncle Joseph, but more muscular; a man, I thought, of great strength. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, high above his elbow, and I noticed what powerful arms he possessed; it flashed across my mind that he had been, perhaps, a pugilist in his day. And there was nothing polite or welcoming about his manner; instead, he gave me a cold look and as coldly demanded what he could do for me.
“You can give me a bottle of Bass and another of lemonade, if you please,” I said. “I’ve knocked about a dozen times!”
“More or less—less, I think,” he answered, coolly. “I heard you, my lad!—but I was otherwise occupied just then.”